I play math games with his inmate number,
draw flowers on his letters.
Lebanon – maximum security.
London – medium security.
Ohio lies – these are both the same concrete home.
We tack his picture on the fridge.
A blue jumpsuit against a painted forest background.
They are taken to look like he is ours again.
He smiles big, with roses in his hand.
These photos are for lovers – not loved ones.
I tell him how stupid he looks,
he makes fun of my crush on The Rock.
My professor tells us what prison is like.
I tell him visiting rooms smell like old toast
and lemon laundry detergent.
I list the rules – no shoulders showing,
no locations on clothing, don’t sit too close.
I did not know what parole was
until I waited for it.